


Impossible Magics

by GlitchDragoon



Category: Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Angst, Blow Jobs, Choking, Degradation, Dependency, Gay Panic, Gore, Hand Jobs, Healing, Hurt/Comfort, I demand all students survive, Impossible Magics AU, M/M, Major Story Spoilers, Master/Slave, Mentions of Rape, Multi, Poly Relationship, Sex Magic, Smut, Trauma, Violence, magical slavery, no beta we die like Glenn, questionable dynamics
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-22
Updated: 2020-07-24
Packaged: 2021-03-04 17:54:59
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 2
Words: 13,044
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25440472
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GlitchDragoon/pseuds/GlitchDragoon
Summary: Hubert has been a slave for as long as he can remember. Anything before this time in his life is a blur, eaten away by an ancient ritual that has ravaged his mind and left him incapable of disobeying his master. His life is nothing but an endless cycle of pain, misery, and fear... until he ends up in the possession of a young mercenary known as the Ashen Demon. His lack of emotion is terrifying, as it leaves Hubert outside of the safety of routine and expectations. Though he doubts that this master will be any different than the last, he’ll have to do everything he can to try to please him. He has no other choice.
Relationships: Dorothea Arnault/Edelgard von Hresvelg, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier, Lorenz Hellman Gloucester/Claude von Riegan, Minor or Background Relationship(s), My Unit | Byleth/Dimitri Blaiddyd, My Unit | Byleth/Hubert von Vestra, My Unit | Byleth/Hubert von Vestra/Dimitri Blaiddyd
Comments: 26
Kudos: 60





	1. Unconditional Obedience

**Author's Note:**

> This is an entirely self-indulgent AU, and one of the first things I’ve written in an eternity. The first 14 chapters are guided by a 14 Day Quarantine Challenge posted by Awkward_Dragon, so you can thank them for this monster ever reaching publication.
> 
> The chapters to come may or may not be a bit shorter. I’m just having fun writing this down and getting back into writing. Please be gentle :’)

>->Byleth<-<

“We aren’t here for some sort of pissing contest,” Jeralt growls, the wooden chair he’s sitting in groaning as he leans back to cross his arms. “We just wanted to know if any of the damned rumors are true.”

Byleth watches the men sitting across from him and his father passively, his eyes half-lidded and dull with apathy. No one is comfortable enough to try and meet his lifeless gaze after he’s been staring them down for so long, but they don’t seem happy with the fact that they’re left only Jeralt the Blade Breaker to focus on. Byleth’s father is an incredibly intimidating man; a tall, immovable mountain of chiseled muscles and impressive scars, sporting a short blond faux hawk and a scruff of matching facial hair on his chin. His title of a mercenary king is intimidating enough on his own, but he exudes an aura that silently confirms his prowess, moving with the confidence and swagger of a tiger sauntering untouchably through his jungle. Jeralt’s particular brand of intensity is typical enough, expected and admired for one in his line of work, but it’s a world away from his son’s. 

Anyone’s guess would be that the two of them are unrelated. Byleth is barely an average height, with trim, sinewy muscle and shoulder-length hair that grows in a deep blue-green hue. Where is father is strength and raw power, Byleth is willowy grace and subdued movements. He’s young, still not having fully grown into his long limbs and lithe frame, but the emotions others feel from the sheer force of the young man’s presence, the primally unsettling lack of discernible emotion, has already earned him a title of his own; the Ashen Demon. His father seems uncomfortable with the name, but it fits too well for his disapproval to stop even his own men from speaking it. It fits too easily. 

Byleth’s eyes are a strikingly dull and almost lifeless blue, looking more like the eyes of a dead animal than anything, and his constant expression of passive boredom never falters. Not even as he cuts down the poor souls he and his father are paid to confront, his movements with his sword weaving a lethal and efficient dance as he emotionlessly condemns them to death. Many a good mercenary has left Jeralt’s employ after seeing Byleth remove his sword from a corpse without a sound, returning to his father’s side with a vacant stare and a face spattered with gore. There are rumors that Byleth truly is a heartless demon, summoned by Jeralt and bound to fight for him. There’s no evidence to support this rumor, but there is also a disturbing lack of evidence to disprove it. 

Byleth certainly does nothing to help his own cause, refusing his father’s gentle insistence that he find common ground with their men. He takes no joy in trying to listen to them, and never offers more than a handful of flat, quiet words in response to anything they ask him. A good day of socialization for him is asking someone to pass him a tin of polish for his blade, and then promptly leaving. He eats only with his father, and never takes anyone with him when he travels into the wilds to hunt or fish. This sparked another rumor that the Ashen Demon kills animals with his bare hands, feasting in the woods before returning to present a portion of his catch to Jeralt. A ridiculous idea, but almost amusing in its absurdity. 

Byleth snaps out of his wandering thoughts as Jeralt speaks again, giving his father a sideways glance. The strangers they’re speaking to are silently relived to be out of his unnerving line of sight, even if only for a moment. 

“I’m not some idiot hick waving a pitchfork around, looking to stir up some sort of head-hunt. I’m a respected mercenary, and a fair businessman. I’m only here looking for information...And more than willing to pay for it, naturally.”

“With all due respect, sir, it’s unlikely you could afford the information you’re looking for,” one of the strangers replies, his long fingers neatly steepled on the table. Byleth’s face betrays nothing as he notes the man’s hands are pale and soft, his nails neatly trimmed and coated with a clear polish. The hands of a noble, not a tradesman or a fellow mercenary. It’s unlikely he would pose any significant threat, even if he happens to know any form of offensive magic. The second stranger is different, with an obviously armored outfit and a much heavier build. Likely the noble’s hired muscle, and unlikely to be loyal unto death. The body guard is an insignificant threat. Byleth vaguely wonders how foolish a man would have to be to believe that a single thug could protect him from both the Blade Breaker and the Ashen Demon... Hopefully foolish enough to be heavily extorted by said thug. 

Byleth almost smirks at his own thought, making a mental note to repeat it to Jeralt later. His father always seems so genuinely happy about such small gestures as hearing jokes from him. 

“I would have to disagree. We’re an extremely well-off group, with access to resources that other companies would have in pretty short supply.” 

Haggling. How incredibly dull. Byleth tries to keep his mind busy as the noble expresses surprise at being offered social connections to a smuggling group in Almyra; he notes the unkempt condition of the small lakeside cabin they’re in, counting the number of hidden weapons he can see on the man’s bodyguard, looking for clues to the nobleman’s magic of choice, and going over the best strategies for keeping his father unscathed when fighting both a mage and a swordsman in such close quarters. Neither he nor his father have the talent for magical combat, and the only mage among their own mercenary company knows nothing but a few low-tier healing spells. Byleth has little experience with magic, but he supposes that won’t matter if he cuts the darkly-smiling man down fast enough.

“Yes, I suppose your terms are reasonable,” the noble purrs, looking incredibly pleased with himself. Byleth doesn’t care enough to wonder what his father offered. “You’ll leave here with the answers to your questions, my good man. And perhaps even a demonstration, if you’re so inclined.”

“We can start by answering my first question,” Jeralt asserts gruffly, his demeanor unchanged by his small success. “The rumors?”

“Ah. Well that would all depend on what you’ve heard,” the nobleman says with an exaggerated shrug. His eyes are glittering with something deeply unsettling. Byleth decides very quickly that he hates the man, his instincts screaming for him to stay on the defensive. He casually rests a hand on the hilt of his sword, glad when Jeralt notices and moves to sit up straighter, looking more actively alert. “We have indeed been investigating some strange and ancient magics. We have found detailed descriptions of spells used by some rather heretical cults of old; spells quietly banned by the Church, not even mentioned in their own laws lest people become curious.”

Jeralt raises an eyebrow, flashing a tight smile that doesn’t reach his eyes. “And how did you manage this?”

“My group has been... salvaging some rare ancient tomes. The sort that have all been put to the fire in the past,” the noble says, tight-lipped on specific details. Maybe he’s not as foolish as Byleth thought. He had been hoping the man’s pride would lead to a long-winded confession. “We’ve been searching for the perfect casters for these delicate spells, and intellectuals to help decipher what is left between the lines in the old rituals. We’ve had limited success, but what we’ve accomplished so far has been encouraging.”

A beat of silence passes between them as Jeralt mulls that over, the older man not quite as adept as Byleth at keeping his face neutral. He looks vaguely bothered. Magic hasn’t ever settled well with his father, and illegal dark magic is definitely not going to be the exception. “We had heard more whispers about your little group’s high mortality rate. How you hire with low standards, then turn to experimenting on anyone who can’t keep up with your demands.”

“You paint me in an unflattering light, mister Eisner.” The stranger puts a light hand over his heart in mock offense. Byleth notices his father bristle in the corner of his vision. When had they mentioned their last name in this meeting? “We don’t work so cruelly as that. We strive to keep all of our precious mages, and subjects, alive for as long as possible. But the magic we are dealing with is old, and we have found very little detail on safety precautions. Our casters may occasionally suffer injury, or our subjects may not survive a complete ritual... but that is never our intent.”

Byleth blinks, leaning forward to place and elbow on the table and prop his chin up with his hand. The movement from him seems to startle the two strangers, drawing the attention briefly before they turn back to Jeralt. What the nobleman has said is likely a bunch of partial truths. Byleth doubts that an operation of this caliber is devoting any time or resources to safety. It’s most likely the opposite. When dealing with such a delicate thing as illegal magic, they need to keep as few people on board as possible. The Church of Seiros is merciless in their treatment of those who defy them, so these underground operations need to function similarly. They’ve probably killed more of their own mages than any sort of miscast spell has, simply in an effort to maintain secrecy. 

Jeralt grunts, accepting that he won’t get a straight answer from the man about just how high their mortality rate may be rising. That’s not the exact information that they’re here for anyways. “And you’ve seen success with these spells.” 

His father’s words are a statement, pushing the noble slightly and letting him know that they have a bit of a base for their suspicions. The noble meets this gesture with a large, toothy grin. Byleth has never seen such an unsettling expression outside of battle. 

“The understanding we have of these rituals is limited, and the subject will perish more often than not,” the man waffles, pausing for just a moment as if he’s considering how much to divulge. “We’ve successfully implemented one spell on a living subject in the last few years. It may seem small but it is a remarkably major milestone, considering the work we do. Even though we’ve never been able to successfully duplicate the results.”

“And the outcome of this old, secret magic would be..?” Jeralt trails off, giving an expectant look to the deeply unsettling man before them.

“I believe this is where the demonstration I mentioned earlier would be appropriate.” Byleth recognizes the sadistic flash in the man’s eyes as soon as he gestures to a crooked, warped door across the room, likely hiding the bedroom of the dilapidated cabin. Something like dread is twisting lowly in his stomach, and his fingers are curled slightly into the skin of his jawline as the noble chuckles. “Do try to contain your amazement, yes? This hasn’t been effectively done in over a century.” The man turns away from his guests ever so slightly, calling out towards the door in a voice that makes Byleth’s skin crawl. “Hubert? Come here, darling.”

There’s a faint sound behind the door, like someone scrambling to stand up from the cabin’s wooden floors. Jeralt is on edge, and Byleth is now certain that what he’s feeling is fear. They had both acknowledged the possibility that they would be attacked when coming here, the nobleman attempting to kill them after he sees just how much information is circulating about his organization. Byleth half expects to see some grotesque flesh golem burst out of the room; a howling abomination against the goddess, all twisted limbs and foggy eyes as it shambles to attack him and his father. He doesn’t have time to be relieved when his impulsive thought is proven to be wrong, as he’s hit instead with a wave of revulsion when the door creaks open.

The young man that quickly shuffles into the room looks awful, and not in any twisted, monstrous sort of way. His eyes are sunken into his pale, gaunt face, and his side-swept black hair hangs limply to his jawline. The lose, stained clothes draped over his broad frame fail to hide the mottling of cuts and bruises that cover his ivory skin as he moves. His eyes are an intriguing and pretty shade of pale green, glazed over and unfocused with the obvious sheen of someone suffering a fever. It’s impossible to miss how heavily the boy, Hubert he was called, is trembling as he drops to his knees beside the nobleman’s chair. He fixes his gaze on the floor with a soft, rasping mutter of, “Master.”

Jeralt makes an incredulous noise, his eyes widening as he takes in the scene in front of him. Byleth’s mask doesn’t crack, but he’s feeling something very similar to his father. Slavery has been outlawed across the continent of Fódlan for nearly a century, with the majority of the population supporting the movement and leaving the cruel practice behind. Now it seems that this wickedly grinning nobleman has discovered some sort of tangentially related magic. This is a very bad development, to say the least. 

After recollecting himself, Jeralt manages to keep a semblance of neutrality in his voice. Byleth is proud of him. Not everyone finds it as simple as he does to keep everything beneath the surface. “And what exactly is... this?”

“Little Hubert here is the picture of unconditional obedience,” the noble says as he crooks a finger beneath Hubert’s chin. The pale boy docilely lets his head be tilted to the side, showing the left side of his neck to the watching mercenaries. A softly glowing glyph is visible there, looking like a tattoo that’s been charged with tense lavender energy. It doesn’t look like something that would feel comfortable, knowing the dark nature of this old magic. Byleth’s eyes narrow almost imperceptibly as he studies it. The shape of it is foreign; a square-ish hand shape with a hole in the shape of a simple flame in the palm, carrying a meaning that’s entirely lost on him. The nobleman turns his own hand over, showing a matching glyph on the inside of his own wrist. How had Byleth missed seeing it earlier? It seems so obvious now. 

“We picked him up in the Adrestian Empire a few years ago,” the man explains, moving to stroke Hubert’s cheek with his long fingers. The boy shudders, his eyes showing a flash of dull despair as he tolerates his master’s touch. “He was the first to survive the ritual. And although the spell doesn’t function quite as it was meant to, it’s been enough to convince me to keep him around.”

“What exactly does that... Or, what does the ritual do?” Jeralt asks, his Adam’s Apple bobbing as he swallows. Byleth can tell his father is disturbed by this whole affair, the old fearless warrior unable to bring himself to watch the trembling young man on the floor.

“The ritual was meant to remove his sense of free will, leaving him a perfectly capable puppet, made to follow the orders of his master without question or hesitation,” the noble purrs. His fingers are continuing to idly rove over Hubert’s skin, tracing down his neck and towards his spine, as casually as if he’s petting a dog. Byleth can no longer see the boy’s eyes as they turn towards the floor. “As I said, the execution was imperfect. He’s left with thoughts and desires of his own, but that’s rather irrelevant in the grand scheme of things... You see, Hubert is unable to disobey commands.”

“Truly?” Jeralt asks, trying to sound politely interested. Like they’re discussing a phenomenon in the weather. Byleth can recognize the tone of voice his father uses when he feels he’s going to be sick; the strained tone, the roughness creeping in at the edges of his words. It’s strange to hear that voice from him outside of battle, where his father is usually unable to hide most of his nausea at the sight of his son loping up to him while drenched in gore. Byleth will never admit the satisfaction he feels in this moment, knowing they’ve found something else that has managed to disturb Jeralt in such a visceral way.

“Indeed,” the stranger confirms, a finger tapping the rune that glows on Hubert’s neck. “If he disobeys, the mark will inflict pain upon him. The longer he resists doing as he’s told, the more painful it will become.” He sits back and crosses his legs, Hubert flinching at the movement and curling inwards in an attempt to look smaller. “I know he may not look it now, but he was quite willful in his early days. We have found that once the pain is too much for him to bear, Hubert will black out. It’s only then that he becomes the puppet the spell was meant to make him, his body mindlessly carrying out the order he was given with a certain... lack of grace. He’ll usually come back to himself rather quickly, and the pain will immediately restart if he tries to resist what his body has already started.”

Byleth has never seen his father unable to even partially hide his abject horror at a situation before, but it would seem that today is a day for firsts. Jeralt stares at the cruel man with his mouth open ever so slightly, rendered speechless by what they’ve found. It’s understandable, Byleth supposes. If this were to become a more common practice, no one would be safe. Any lord looking to make a grab for power could turn their people into puppets, even with this botched version of the spell. Wars would become lawless clashes of puppeteers, with commoners unable to decide anything for themselves as they fall on each other’s swords. A true nightmare... and one that Hubert is currently living out alone.

Jeralt finally manages to clear his throat, his eyes shifting from person to person like he isn’t sure where he’s supposed to be looking anymore. 

“Yes... Well. That’s just as astonishing as you claimed. I think it’s—“

“What would happen to Hubert if you died?”

The entire room seems to collectively recoil at Byleth’s sudden words, even Jeralt. It’s not like his voice is unpleasant; in fact, it’s light and soft, like one would expect to hear from a talented bard shyly asking for requests from his audience. His words are just unexpected, and deeply concerning to hear from one called the Ashen Demon. The first time he’s opened his mouth all day, and it’s to ask a question that sounds more like a deliberate threat.

“I… that is, we, erm,” the nobleman stutters as he quickly tries to regain his composure, taking his hand off of Hubert and instead fiddling with his pristine jacket. Hubert’s eyes flick up in Byleth’s direction for the briefest second, only for him to turn back to the floor the moment their gazes meet. “Since the spell has taken to him incorrectly, we aren’t quite sure. It was meant to kill the subject when their master died, so that would be the most likely outcome. Perhaps he would simply experience pain until his body gave out, or I suppose there’s a chance that the magic used to seal the spell could trigger a small explosion at the site of the mark on his neck. Perhaps he would endlessly hunt down his master’s killer in a haze of madness. There’s no way of knowing for sure.”

Byleth has to bite back the response that jumps to the front of his mind; that there’s most definitely a way to know for sure what would happen, and it involves lopping the head off of a certain criminal’s shoulders. But as tempting as the idea is, it would be a waste of time if Hubert were killed in the process. Byleth can’t tear his gaze away from the pale boy, watching as he slowly starts to calm himself again. He’s brought his arms around his middle in the smallest of self-hugs... It’s one of the most pitiful things Byleth has ever seen.

“Is it possible to transfer his ownership?”

An incredulous laugh bursts out of the nobleman’s mouth. He seems almost as surprised by the question as Jeralt, who reaches out to firmly grab Byleth’s arm.

“Hey, what do you think you’re doing, kid?” his dad asks quietly. Anyone else wouldn’t be able to see the disappointment coloring the stoic old veteran’s eyes. It stings a little, that his father would think he had any malicious intent in asking this. It seems even Jeralt isn’t immune to thinking of him as a demon. “This isn’t something we need to get real involved in. We’ve got the information we need, don’t fuck around.”

“Let the boy ask his questions! I have to say, it’s quite intriguing to hear the demon himself speak,” the nobleman says, his eyes glittering. “Have you taken an interest in little Hubert, hm? Very strange, given some of the rumors we’ve heard of you.”

Hubert jolts as his master gives his thigh a light kick, wide eyes darting up quickly for instruction. He receives it in the form of a small wave from the noble, and the pale boy ducks his head before shimmying under the small table. 

Byleth has seen men suffer and die, all the while pleading for mercy or cursing his name. He’s stood by while they’ve bled out, screaming names of loved ones or even the goddess. He can’t remember a time when he’s lost his composure and allowed his thoughts and feelings to broadcast themselves across his face in dangerous or uncomfortable situations. But as it stands in this never-ending night of firsts, Byleth’s dead expression snaps into one of subdued surprise as a minuscule squeak tears its way out of the back of his throat. 

Hubert is kneeling just in front of Byleth, one cheek pressing against the young mercenary’s knee as he tries to nuzzle his legs further apart from under the table. Byleth’s arms snap to his sides, hands gripping the sides of his chair until his knuckles turn white. It’s painfully obvious what his intentions are; or more accurately, what he’s been ordered to do. Byleth remains still and tense as Hubert continues to give him uncertain attentions, unfocused glassy eyes drifting up to make brief contact with his own. Something turns in Byleth’s stomach, and it’s certainly not arousal. 

“What would you do with him, if I even considered your request? Surely you have enough men under your command that you don’t need a fighter... Would you use him to release your legendary aggression, tearing him apart each day you find yourself without targets, before healing him for the day to follow? Or maybe a different kind of release, for those more lecherous human emotions you must keep further under the surface?” 

The cruel nobleman is enjoying this far too much, and even his hired muscle, who had only been half-listening to the conversation before, lets loose a low and rumbling laugh. Jeralt looks mortified, cheeks vibrantly red as he drags a hand down his face and tries not to look at Byleth’s mute panic, or the boy that’s trying to press his face between his son’s legs. 

“Why would you even want this one? I’m sure if you were hungry enough for a captive, you could easily find yourself one. It’s certainly not his wretched looks that have caught your eye... Is it the fact that his own thoughts don’t matter against what you want? That he’s entirely unable to disobey you, Ashen Demon? I suppose that would be quite fitting, for you to crave such complete and absolute power over someone.”

Hubert is truly hesitating now, not making any progress in getting Byleth to relax under his uncertain nuzzles. He leans back onto his heels, looking away in what Byleth can only assume is a poignant combination of fear and shame. The boy’s shaking arms have wrapped around himself again, searching for some illusive comfort, and he opens his mouth to say something; most likely an apology for how unappealing the other must find him. 

One of Byleth’s hands shoots forward in a jerky motion, fingers lightly pressing over Hubert’s lips in an attempt to keep him from speaking. He’s not exactly willing to see Hubert punished by his master if he realizes the boy has failed in... whatever the endgame of this was meant to be. He just needs to keep Hubert quiet, and over here beside him, for a bit longer while he speaks to his master. His tactic works, but at the cost of causing the boy to immediately tense up and pale even further. He gives Byleth a fleeting look, panicked indecision behind his eyes as the mercenary’s blank expression settles back into place. Without direction he simply tries to guess what’s wanted from him, parting his trembling lips to gently take two of Byleth’s fingers into his mouth. 

Byleth is now internally screaming. None of the others have a clear view of what exactly Hubert is doing right now, thankfully, but he can feel his cheeks prickling with what he hopes is only a faint blush. He takes an extra moment to pray that his father thinks he’s trying to keep the enslaved boy at bay, not letting his fingers curl gently against his warm, moving tongue. It’s the only thing he can think to do right now, as it serves to keep Hubert silent and reassured, while simultaneously providing a convenient lie for the amused nobleman to believe. The last thing Byleth wants is to become a new domineering master for Hubert, but the noble may cave and give him a chance to pull the sickly boy away from this life, simply for how amusing he seems to find the thought of selling the boy to the Ashen Demon for pleasure. 

Hubert takes to his new task with nearly palpable relief, his shoulders losing a fraction of their tension as he allows his eyes to drift shut. The feeling of his fingers in the boy’s mouth is wildly distracting to Byleth, especially as the unintended validation encourages him to start moving his head, but the mercenary’s eyes are once again dead as he looks back up to the strangers across from him. He‘ll not be caught off guard again. Not by these people, who seem happy to use Hubert as their weapon of choice. 

“Name your price.”

The cruel man’s laugh is practically a cackle, and he claps his hands together sharply in delight. Byleth can feel Hubert jump at the sound. He’s not entirely sure how he’s supposed to comfort the boy from this position, and he highly doubts that the movement of his fingers against his tongue comes off as reassuring. As much as he wants to pull Hubert out from under the table, and put some healthy distance between the two of them, it’s unlikely that would go over well in their current company. Jeralt seems to disagree with his careful pandering, the expression on his face betraying his desire to be anywhere else but in the same room as his son right now. He seems to be one misstep away from throwing tonight’s recon and storming out of the cabin with Byleth in tow, Hubert be damned.

“What a delightful turn of events! Of course, I have no real intention of selling him to you, but to know that you’d ask is absolutely fascinating.” Byleth’s eyes narrow ever so slightly as he stares at the man, the long stretch of silence prompting him to continue talking. “I’m sure you understand that it’s not sentimentality holding me back, but the fact that Hubert is invaluable to our research. He’s a potential key to unlocking the hidden powers of our ancestors, and understanding magic that has been outlawed by the Church for ages. I cannot simply toss that away when our success rate is already so staggeringly low, especially for something as fleeting as money or—“

“I offer myself in trade.”

Jeralt makes a strangled choking noise, whipping around to roughly yank Byleth’s shoulder. It repositions him slightly, pulling his fingers from Hubert’s mouth with an obscene little popping sound. Byleth is thankful somewhere in the back of his mind that his father is too distracted to notice it. In fact, everyone in the room seems rather stunned by what he’s said, even Hubert where he’s demurely wiping his mouth beneath the table, and he finds himself the focus of a heavy stare from each of them.

“What the fuck?” Jeralt spits, his voice slowly rising with every moment that lets the reality of what Byleth said sink in further. “What in the actually fuck, kid, are you insane? You open your mouth and this is the shit that comes out of it? I just said we shouldn’t get involved, are you even listening to me?”

“I can make my own choices,” Byleth says evenly, shrugging off Jeralt’s hand with a bit of unnecessary force. “What I want has nothing to do with you.”

“The fuck it doesn’t!” Even though Jeralt is still enraged, his curses conveying that exceedingly well to everyone around him, Byleth can see something like hurt creeping into his expression. He hadn’t meant his words to be a jab at their relationship, but he can see now how they could be interpreted as such. Well, no time to worry about that right now. He has a rather gobsmacked criminal to barter with. “You’re not just my kid, you’re a full member of the company. You can’t just throw your life around like—“

“I offer my services. A full-contract, paid upfront with Hubert’s ownership, for the entirety of the period until you create another successful subject.” His father is absolutely incensed at being the one cut off this time, opening his mouth to continue arguing. Byleth meets his glare with one of his own, trying to pour every ounce of sincerity he can into what he hopes comes off as a look of pure malice. It works too well, his father’s face falling slack with shock. After so many years of blank stares and barely-there smiles, short sentences and passionless words, he had obviously never expected to be the first target of his son’s visible, vitriolic anger. It’s harder than Byleth expected it to be as he watches the man crumple slightly, brows furrowed as he sits back to watch what’s happening play out. The fearsome man looks more akin to a kicked puppy.

Byleth can see the nobleman’s eyes glittering at the new prospect of a contract as he turns back to him, likely thrilled at the display of the young man quelling the legendary Blade Breaker. That would be the best possible reaction anyways, hopefully making this offer seem more enticing. He can’t quite bring himself to look down and try to gauge Hubert’s thoughts on the situation, but the boy is definitely no longer trying to touch him. 

“You would retain complete access to Hubert, while also having the Ashen Demon at your beck and call.” His own title drops from his mouth like venom, leaving a lingering foulness in his mouth as the cruel nobleman considers his offer. He'd rather never speak the name himself, feeling a bit more dehumanized every time he hears it, but it’s the only calling that’s likely to play on the noble’s interest in him.

“You would essentially be giving your service in exchange for nothing. You wouldn’t truly profit until we managed to duplicate our results with Hubert, which could mean years under my service. What would prompt you to make such an unbalanced offer in my favor?” the noble asks as he reclines slightly. “As I’ve said before, he’s got nothing to offer other than obedience.”

Byleth’s answer comes easier than he would’ve thought when talking about receiving a slave, his resolve steeling as he tries to present some logical reason for his offer without having nausea overtake him. “I don’t consider this level of obedience to be nothing... It’s incredible. My work does not come cheap, and the magic displayed here is valuable. It’s fair enough to offer an honest contract for such appealing pay.”

“And what’s to ensure you’ll be keeping your word in the end?” The man tilts his head slightly to the side. Good. He’s actually considering doing this. “A man like you could storm away from here with your spoils in hand, and we would be hard pressed to kill you. It’s not like we could seek legal assistance either, given the nature of our business.”

“That’s your failsafe,” Byleth points out icily, making a tiny dismissive gesture with his hand. “If I break the contract, you can report me to any authority you wish. Claim that you paid money in advance, and I ran off with it. Say that you only just discovered the power I have over Hubert, and that you’re adding it to your report for moral reasons. I’m sure they’ll eagerly hunt down someone who owns a magic-bound slave. It’s likely Hubert would die with me, as you’ve said, so the evidence of your experiments would also be lost in the end.”

The room falls silent for a long moment, with everyone around Byleth shifting their gaze away from him and back again. Everyone is lost in their own thoughts, and seem to be looking to Byleth to try and puzzle out what’s really going on behind his eyes. He’s acutely aware of this, and meets their scrutiny with a rather bold move. He reaches out his hand under the table, curling his fingers into Hubert’s limp black hair and drawing a muffled sound of surprise from the sickly boy. The mercenary is trying to be gentle, but that line of thinking alone is enough to make his skin crawl, as he guides Hubert’s chin to rest on his thigh. Byleth looks down, meeting his fearful gaze for the briefest moment, before softly pressing his fingers back into the slave’s mouth. Hubert seems lost as he carefully follows Byleth’s cues, noticeably trying to force more enthusiasm into his actions for the man who very may well be his new master. Byleth is hit with a wave of self loathing as he turns his gaze back to the nobleman, arching an eyebrow over his dark eyes.

“Well... I suppose we’ll see what else we can earn from catering to your tastes, little demon.” The man seems darkly amused as he pushes himself to his feet, his smile far from pleasant, and his bodyguard stands with him. “The ritualistic transfer of his ownership may also kill him. I’m sure you could have guessed this, given our previous conversations this evening. We will attempt it tonight, and if all goes well we can have an official contract drawn up in my offices before the sun even rises. If not, well… I’m sure we can agree on a term of service regardless. To recompense our losses, of course.”

Byleth feels the smallest rush at his success with the criminal, following him with his eyes as he and the other stranger begin clearing a small area in the living space. He hadn’t expected it to be so easy. He’s never been any sort of master manipulator, having no need to learn word games and charisma in his line of work, but he’ll take this small success without complaint. Maybe the prospect of having the Ashen Demon under his control was just too tempting.

Byleth looks down to Hubert again, his guilt sharpening as the kneeling boy freezes. He knows it’s a hollow and ineffective attempt, but Byleth tries to offer some reassurance to him by softly thumbing at his cheek. The message doesn’t seem to get through to Hubert, who shudders as he fails to understand what Byleth wants from him, and the mercenary tries to give him an apologetic look as he withdraws his fingers again.

“Come on,” Byleth says quietly, wiping his fingers on the hem of his shirt as he stands. Hubert obeys without hesitation, even though his ownership hasn’t been properly transferred yet, crawling out from under the table to shakily stand at Byleth’s side. Jeralt is watching the two of them with mingled horror and disgust, remaining firmly in his chair, but the look in his eyes is enough to have Hubert shuffling to the other side of Byleth to escape the veteran’s gaze. 

“Practicing for when he’s yours?” the noble asks, snickering to himself before pointing a single long finger at Hubert and causing him to flinch. “You. Come over here and kneel, with your back to me.”

Hubert rushes to obey, practically tripping over his own feet as he moves around the table to drop onto his knees again. The nobleman narrows his eyes as he raises his leg to plant his foot in the middle of Hubert’s back. The boy is shoved forward, doubled over into a low bow that smacks his forehead against the floor. Hubert doesn’t even make a sound, lying submissively nder his master’s foot.

“Now don’t look at me like that,” the noble says, addressing both Jeralt and Byleth as the young mercenary draws close. His foot remains firmly on Hubert’s back. “This is entirely necessary for proper casting, and you’ll have to do the same. Move around there, you’ll have to put your foot on the back of his head.”

Byleth hesitates for only a moment, taking in the scene he’s becoming a part of. This display and the magic at work here... it’s all disgusting, but he too obeys. He rests his foot as carefully as he can on the back of Hubert’s head, drawing no reaction from the boy. 

The noble nods in satisfaction, his hands starting to weave patterns in the air. It looks sometimes like he’s plucking the strings of a harp, and sometimes like he’s writing in the air. Lines of glowing lavender begin to flicker into existence, drawn into complex patterns and symbols with intentional swipes. Occasionally a few of the drawings will vanish, seeming to concern the man and alter the flow of his casting. They’re quickly replaced with altered glyphs before he continues on to the next one. 

Byleth’s eyes follow each movement the man makes, entranced even though he knows what’s happening is wrong. Even as the atmosphere around them seems to shift, charged like the air before a lightning strike, causing the hair on the back of his neck to stand up. The thin, glowing circle of glyphs that hovers between him and the nobleman, suspended above Hubert’s prone form, is too pretty for what it represents.

“Now I’ll need your hand, Byleth.”

Byleth holds his right hand out to the man, whose face is scrunched up in concentration as he maintains the glowing designs in the air. His hand is cold and smooth, and not nearly uncomfortable enough to feel in Byleth’s opinion. Something slimy or like snake skin would be more fitting, he thinks in the moment before the ritual begins to amp up.

Byleth’s hand is drawn towards the lavender design, pulled through the center of the circle of glyphs. They begin to turn slightly, like a wheel that’s been lightly nudged into motion as the noble speaks again. The language he’s using is entirely indecipherable. Even though he can’t understand them, the raw _wrongness_ of the words is almost enough to cause Byleth’s hand to snap instinctually back to his side. He remains still though, a slight frown tugging at his lips as small orbs of light begins flicking and forming in the spaces between the glyphs. It’s pretty for a moment… and then the pain comes.

The tiny spots of light shoot into his hand like bullets, lighting up his skin from inside of his flesh. The feeling is like molten metal being dripped onto the back of his hand, and the shock of it almost knocks Byleth off his feet. His knees weaken as he lets loose a scream; a short, clipped sound that comes out in a burst through gritted teeth past his sharply ragged breathing. The only thing keeping the young mercenary on his feet is the noble, who has now viciously tightened his grip on Byleth’s hand as he continues changing. In the corner of the room, a shouting Jeralt is shoved back into his chair by the noble’s bodyguard and gruffly told to wait. Byleth is in too much pain to really hear the vile words his father spits in return. 

The sensation of his hand being scorched from the inside out lasts several minutes. It’s intense, and it doesn’t fade until its abrupt departure. Byleth is gasping unsteadily, tears streaking down his cheeks as he recovers from the sensation. The noble is still chanting, but nearly all of the lavender magic around his hand has vanished. With its departure, Byleth is now left with a glyph on the back of his hand. It matches the one on Hubert’s neck perfectly; the square-ish hand shape with the flame in the palm. It’s uncomfortable, to say the least. It’s no longer causing pain, but it feels like the skin has been stretched taut while the skin beneath carries the crackling sensation of flesh that’s fallen asleep. Byleth bitterly thinks how warranted that flame symbol is as he glances down to Hubert. He’s vaguely thankful that the shivering boy doesn’t seem to be in pain, followed by the hope that he didn’t end up stomping down on his head during the magical branding of his hand. 

With a few more lines of foreign chanting the noble finally reaches the end of the ritual, apparently in no hurry to remove his foot from Hubert’s back as he begins inspecting the glowing mark on Byleth’s hand. A quick glance shows the one that used to be on the inside of the mage’s wrist is gone. Byleth is pissed that the removal didn’t hurt. The man would’ve deserved it. 

“Fascinating! It looks as though the placement of the bonding mark may be unique to an individual,” the nobleman mutters, talking more to himself than Byleth. “Perhaps it has some sort of meaning, or link to the casters and subjects.” 

Byleth huffs, pulling his hand back from the man in a swift jerk. He steps back off of Hubert, roughly gesturing for the nobleman to do the same with a shaky arm. It stuns him for a second to be interrupted like that, but he recovers with a touch of grace and clears his throat as he backs away from Hubert. 

“Right... Well, I suppose a test is in order then. Tell Hubert not to obey me, and we’ll see if the transfer has been a success.” 

Byleth responds with a minuscule nod, holding his softly glowing hand to his chest as he looks down to Hubert. The sickly boy hasn’t moved from his deep bowing position, seemingly too afraid to risk angering his new master by rising without permission. Byleth isn’t in the mental state to suppress his little sigh before he speaks. 

“Hubert… sit up.” Hubert complies instantly, rising to a kneeling position instead. He folds his hands in his lap, but Byleth can still see that they’re shaking as badly as his own. As much as he’d like to just be done with this whole business, Byleth can’t stop quite yet. “Don’t listen to him,” he mutters with a vague gesture at the intently watching nobleman. 

“Yes, master,” Hubert mutters, ducking his head lower without falling back into an actual bow. Byleth closes his eyes and pinches the bridge of his nose. This isn’t going to be easy if these waves of self-loathing keep threatening to drown him. 

“Hubert, stand up,” the noble says simply. Hubert reacts by recoiling slightly from the man, but he manages to remain on his knees. No pain begins ripping through him, compelling him to comply. The ritual was a success. “Ah, perfect! It seems we had nothing to worry ab—“

It happens quickly; too quickly to follow. The sound of steel sliding over a rough surface breaks the conversation, and a flash of silver dashes across the nobleman’s throat. His words are turned to gargling as he’s nearly decapitated by Byleth’s sword, eyes wide as his heart begins spurting his blood out of his open arteries. A shower of blood rains over Hubert and Byleth before the man drops to the floor, landing in a sprawled and twitching mess on the old wooden floors.

The bodyguard that was lingering by Jeralt shouts in surprised outrage, moving to draw his own sword, but the grizzled veteran beats him to the punch. A dagger is plunged into the underside of the man’s jaw with all the momentum of Jeralt standing up from the chair, the sounds of his gurgling dying breaths joining his employer’s as he too falls to the ground. 

There’s a fragile moment as their two lives are slipping away where everyone is silent, the three surviving souls all breathing heavily and spattered with various levels of gore. It’s Jeralt that shatters the tense moment, kicking his chair across the floor to slam into the wall. Both Hubert and Byleth flinch at the sound. 

“Don’t you EVER fucking pull ANY shit like that again, kid! You hear me?” 


	2. Rejection

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Hubert is clueless on what he’s supposed to be doing for Byleth. He only hopes he can make acceptable guesses.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if it’s obvious, but I’m very inexperienced at writing actual smut. I’ve always been hung up on things like plot and emotional turmoil, so the porn I write tends to not be very graphic.
> 
> Also, how could I resist giving this deadly, monotone warrior a horse with a stupid name. It’s the one trope I will die defending, the dichotomy is too good.

>->Hubert<-<

Hubert’s ears are ringing like a brass bell, eyes wide and unseeing as the blood of his now-former master soaks through the fabric of his shirt. It may not be the most unpleasant thing Hubert has been covered in, but it seems to carry a unique, burning weight that leaves him hyper aware of what’s just happened to him. This… Ashen Demon had just secured his ownership, and then immediately cut down what was essentially Hubert’s entire world.

It’s not the nobleman’s death that leaves Hubert feeling cold and hollow. No, the man was a sick, sadistic monster. His depravity had known no bounds, and Hubert is sure that his fragmented mind is only capable of allowing him to remember only a fraction of what’s happened to him while under the man’s perverted control. And yet, he’s left with a profound sense of loss now that the single constant in his life, something he had been anchored to from the moment his mind had been left in utter shambles all those years ago, is gone.

With his former master, Hubert had been given ample time to learn. For almost six years he’s been committing every detail of the cruel man to memory; the things that pleased or angered him the most, how to attempt to placate his rage, what he liked to see or hear whenever he would watch Hubert writhing in pain from any form of punishment or entertainment he could dream up. Hell, he had even figured out the best ways to please the people his master frequently lent him to, ensuring they’d never return to his master with a less than stellar report of his behavior. He could write a book on being the perfect slave for the man at this point, well enough to guide anyone else into a life with as little unnecessary suffering as possible. And now, all of that information has been promptly thrown out the fucking window. He had never dreamed that an escape from that life would be possible, and had even given in and stopped craving it after a few short years, and he’s not eager to see what changes are now set in motion. The fear and pain he had grown up with had become predictable. This is… a whole world of unknowns.

Hubert knows nothing about his new master, save from whatever short bits he had picked up during their brief interaction before. He’s called the Ashen Demon, and his former master had been alluding to the violence and lack of emotion that must have given the man that title. He hasn’t been cruel or harsh in handling Hubert before, when he had been crouched beneath the old wooden table, but that had only been a single instance. In the company of others, no less. Those gentle touches and off-put reactions are completely overshadowed by the violence that had erupted from Byleth with no warning. Perhaps that’s to be his life now; carefully dancing around his master’s needs, always bracing himself for the next unpredictable outburst of pain. At least the dead nobleman had been easy to read, every thought broadcast by expressive eyes and a wide, toothy grin. His new master seems to have a talent for portraying himself as completely soulless.

Hubert quickly quells the thought as soon as it pops into his head, vaguely aware of Jeralt berating his son in the background of the stunned fog that’s enveloped his mind. That’s no way to think of the man that’s just bought him… Or, stolen him. Unflattering thoughts are the first step towards letting something insolent slip during the thralls of pain, only worsening whatever punishments he’ll be receiving. The Ashen Demon may be an entirely foreign force that’s been thrust into his life, but at least he has a baseline to cling to; something to keep him from drowning in the terrifying unknown. Everyone who has ever held any measure of power over him has a system by which they give out punishments and rewards. If he can puzzle his master out as quickly as possible, perhaps he can get onto his good side. Maybe even avoid severe punishments for as long as possible. His body is weak right now, wracked with a persistent fever, barely held together by careless healing magic the nobleman used to keep him coherent and functional. The last thing he needs is to immediately disappoint his new master by collapsing during his first punishment.

A soft touch on his shoulder brings him violently crashing back to reality, body going rigid as his head snaps up to meet his master’s gaze. The Ashen Demon is crouched in front of him, expression blank and smeared with blood that was poorly scrubbed at with his sleeve. The air between them is tense, neither saying anything, with his master’s eyes trained on him expectantly. Almost like he’s been given an order, or asked a question… Wait. Had his master asked him a question? 

The color drains from Hubert’s face as he hurriedly tries to recollect his thoughts. Had his master even been speaking to him? It obviously wasn’t an order, or his lack of compliance would have already been sending waves of pain through his body, so it must have been a question. He had thought his master was having a conversation with his father, but now he finds himself bitterly cursing his own stupidity to think that it was acceptable to tune their words out. He’s been in the mercenary’s possession for only a few minutes and already he’s failed him. It’s enough to fill his empty stomach with nauseous fear. He might as well take the initiative and draw Byleth’s sword form him again and press it to his own skin.

“F-Forgive me, master,” Hubert forces out, his voice barely more than a whisper as he drops his gaze back to the floor. When had his hands become so damnably shaky? He twists them together tighter in his lap. “I… I was unable to hear your words. I meant no offense.. and I will graciously accept punishment for my failure.” A truly pitiful attempt at an apology, but it will have to suffice. Hubert is still unsure if his new master prefers short apologies or drawn-out pleading for mercy, and is left fumbling to think of something acceptable. It’s unlikely to help his situation, but his new master deserves his best efforts to please him. 

Byleth is still for a moment, his silent gaze weighing on Hubert’s shoulders like a mountain of bricks. His mind is screaming at his failures, presenting him with endless images of things his master could do in retribution for his infraction. The tension between them continues to build as the silence stretches on, leading to Hubert practically recoiling at Byleth’s first movement. 

There seems to be a moment of hesitation on Byleth’s end before he continues. His hand is deceptively gentle as he holds Hubert’s chin, causing the slave’s pulse to hammer wildly beneath his skin as he lets his face be turned back towards Byleth. He braces himself to be hit as his eyes shamefully scrunch up in blatant fear. 

The breath that Byleth exhales isn’t quite heavy enough to be considered a sigh, but something like pity flashes across his eyes for only the briefest moment. He brings his other hand up to Hubert’s cheek and, rather than hitting him, uses his clean sleeve to start delicately wiping the blood from Hubert’s face. It’s not entirely effective, leaving light steaks against his pale skin, but the unexpected action is enough to throw Hubert back into the terror of uncertainty. 

“Would you like to go back to Adrestia?”

The question is simple, and asked in the gentlest of voices, but it grips Hubert with ice-cold claws of panic. His mind is plunged back to an event in recent months, during one of his master’s cruelest rampages. He had taken Hubert, broken and bleeding, and thrown him from the back of his pegasus mount and into the mountainous terrain that separates Adrestia from its neighboring kingdom, Faerghus. He had left Hubert with nothing but an order to find his way back. What followed was nothing but a blur of pure agony. It had nothing to do with the fact that he was crawling away from his homeland. He has no memories to attach him to the place, his master had only gone so far for cruel flair. Each time his will broke and he could no longer force his limbs to drag him forwards over the rough ground, the agony of his binding would activate, ravaging him with pain in an attempt to force him to continue obeying the order to return to his master. Eventually the pain would overtake him and his mind would slip away, leaving his body to be puppeted along by the sheer force of the dark magic alone. When Hubert would come back to himself, he would find his body had sometimes ingested water from puddles, or leaves from questionably edible plants in an attempt to fuel his trek. Hunger and thirst were never what caused him to stagger, and come under attack once again from the cruel binding. No, it was only his own weakness. His own failures. His master had been sure to point that out when he eventually picked Hubert up again, tired of waiting for his slave to crawl back to him.

The thought of repeating that experience is enough to shake Hubert’s body with a small retch, eyes immediately glazing over with traitorous tears. Goddess damn him, he’s too weak for this… His heart feels like it’s about to give out from sheer despair.

“No… no, please, master, d-don’t… I can do so much better.” His breaths are hitching with near sobs, causing Byleth’s passive mask to break with an expression of gentle shock. He clearly hasn’t expected an offer to take Hubert home to be received like this. “I will happily give you e-everything, all of me… Please, don’t send me away… I know I don’t deserve it, but… all I need is one chance… I can be g-good for you, I swear, just… please.”

He’s crying. His tears have spilled out of his eyes to roll down his cheeks, streaking what’s left of the blood there.. How unsightly. He’s not even being punished yet and here he is on the floor, kneeling with his master and quietly sobbing. His pathetic display seems to have affected Byleth in some way, the mercenary staring at him with wide eyes, hands remaining gently on either side of Hubert’s face. 

Jeralt grunts from across the room, scowling at the display and only serving to worry Hubert more. The crying boy presses his hands softly into Byleth’s hands, silently begging to be protected from the grizzled man’s anger, though he knows he hasn’t earned it.

“Byleth, can you calm him down? We need to get out of here, put some distance between us and these corpses. We’ll sort all this slave shit out when we’re back with the company.”

Byleth gives some sort of noncommittal hum in response to his father, eyes not leaving Hubert’s face as he starts to carefully wipe away his tears. Hubert presses his lips together, his shoulders shaking with the effort of trying to contain his sobs. He needs to calm down… His master hasn’t ordered him to, but it’s now expected of him by both Byleth and his father. He can’t let the first impression he gives be one of complete incompetence. His master may be tolerating his failures for the moment, but he fully expects a proper punishment once it’s convenient for him. Perhaps it will be a form of punishment he doesn’t want his father seeing. Whatever it is, Hubert will take it without protest; unless his master wants to hear him begging, of course. 

Byleth remains crouched in front of him, thumbs starting to rub small circles on Hubert’s cheeks as he waits for him to calm down. It feels so sweet and gentle, it makes Hubert want to vomit. His master shouldn’t have to be going out of his way like this. He should be able to keep a hold on his own emotions, not create an inconvenience for his master for no reason whatsoever. If this had happened in front of his former master, he can’t imagine the pain he would endure over the next few hours. He can’t even bring himself to hold eye contact with Byleth, eyes cast down as he takes a pathetic amount of time to get his breathing back under control. He needs to do better. He needs to be better.

As Hubert finally regains a sense of normalcy again, he feels a slow, careful pat on his cheek. Like his master is congratulating him for managing to calm himself. It’s hard to detect sarcasm from his stoic and quiet master, so he can only assume he’s being belittled. He ducks his head in a small nod, not wanting to speak up so soon after embarrassing himself, trying to indicate that he’s able to leave without making a scene now.

Byleth stands, and Hubert does the same with far less grace. His legs are weak, trembling with fevered weakness as they support his own weight, but he firmly refuses to fall. His master is watching him steadily, like he expects Hubert to tumble back to the ground, and he’s determined not to confirm that suspicion. They move slowly towards the door, giving the corpses a wide berth as they make their way across the old cabin. Hubert doesn’t spare either of them a glance. They’re both in the past now. He needs to focus on his future. On pleasing Byleth. 

Jeralt is waiting for them, having already started preparing the horses for their journey. The dead nobleman had used magic to warp directly to the cabin, so the only mounts they have are the mercenaries’ two war horses. The large animals are scuffing their hooves anxiously on the ground, the smell of blood riling them up and triggering their instinct to search for their riders. 

Hubert hesitates as he approaches the animal that must belong to Byleth; a hulking, muscled beast with thick and immaculately groomed gray fur. It wears light armor in addition to its saddle, the helmet that’s strapped to its head giving its ears the appearance of glistening horns. Hubert has heard of these aggressive horse breeds before. They will kick and trample anything perceived to be a threat to their rider, and are just as loyal and intelligent as the most well-trained war hound. A few veterans even sport huge scars from a war horse’s blunt teeth ripping through their skin. These animals are bred to be fearsome.

“Her name is Glitter,” Byleth says simply as he places a hand on the horse’s neck, earning a low and affectionate huff from the animal. Hubert has no right to judge, and he’s certainly in no place to, but he would have expected a much more serious name for the Ashen Demon’s mount.

“A fine name,” Hubert finally forces out lamely, unsure of what other response he’s supposed to give. His master thankfully seems satisfied, beckoning him closer to the animal’s side. 

“You should pet her. I don’t want her hurting you.”

Hubert blinks owlishly at his master, glad for the moment of pause he’s allowed since he hasn’t been given a direct command. He’s a bit taken aback by the care his master is showing, mind scrambling for a logical reason behind it… Oh, of course. He’s probably expected to care for Glitter from this point forward. Byleth surely doesn’t want his horse stressed out on a daily basis, or to be troubled by Hubert limping up to him with kick-broken bones. That makes much more sense than the ludicrous idea that he’s doing this for Hubert’s sake.

Hubert nods with a sense of determination, trying to still his hand as he moves closer and reaches out to Glitter. He flinches as the massive animal snorts at him, pawing a massive groove in the ground in effortless warning. Hubert can’t tell if his master is amused or annoyed as he grabs the slave’s wrist, guiding his hand all the way to the horse’s neck.

“She’s… soft,” Hubert mumbles, his fingers curling carefully into Glitter’s long fur. He had expected a dry, coarse feeling. This is more like the feeling of the pelts of the large cats his previous master had killed for sport. He hadn’t thought petting a live animal like this would feel so nice. It’s soothing, easing the tension of the headache behind his eyes ever so slightly. “You must take good care of her, master… I’ll strive to do just as well.”

Byleth doesn’t respond, instead moving to fiddle with the straps that hold his travel bag to the back of the saddle. Hubert doesn’t pay much attention, not quite in the right state of mind to learn from his earlier mistake as he pets the war horse, a sense of childish wonder creeping up on him. Glitter turns her head to blink a big, warm amber eye at him, and he can feel an involuntary smile pulling at the corner of his lips. He hopes that means she likes him. He’d like to be able to pet her like this again.

There’s a jingling sound beside him, drawing his attention to where Byleth is swinging himself up into Glitter’s saddle. The blood-smeared mercenary glances down at Hubert, stretching a bit to hold his hand out to him. The new glyph that’s been branded onto his hand pulses softly in the darkness of the night, making the gesture seem more striking than it actually is. It takes an embarrassingly long moment for Hubert to realize what his master wants, and he quickly shakes his head as he takes a step backwards. 

“Ah, you don’t need to trouble yourself, master. I don’t want to be a burden to you or your mount… I can keep pace well enough, even in this state.” Hubert can’t tell if it’s Byleth or Glitter that huffs at him.

“Just get on the damn horse, we don’t have time for this,” Jeralt grouses from his own mount, kicking the horse and spurring it onwards. He has two bags strapped behind him on the saddle; he must have taken Byleth’s bag to make comfortable room for Hubert on his son’s horse. A sweet gesture, if not a bit offset by his gruff attitude. 

“Hubert?” his master asks quietly, seeming to try and snap him out of his hesitation. It’s not an order, not even a suggestion or a request, but Hubert finds himself moving all the same. He places his hand in Byleth’s, grunting as he tries to help his master in the effort of pulling him up onto the horse. It’s a little bit of a fiasco, with the two of them having to try a second time and have Hubert properly use the stirrup for leverage, but he eventually manages to settle in just behind Byleth. 

“Right, you’ll need to hold on,” Byleth says, glancing over his shoulder when Hubert doesn’t immediately make a move. If he’s frustrated he doesn’t let it show, reaching around to grab the sickly boy’s hands and pull them around his middle. “Can’t have you falling if you doze off,” he says, cutting off whatever Hubert is about to say in response by kicking Glitter forward.

Hubert makes a soft noise as they start moving, the movement of the rowdy horse jostling his aching body with every step. He doesn’t complain though, focusing instead on how he’s supposed to handle his arms wrapped around his master. He tries to make his grip as gentle and respectful as possible, but also keeps in mind that he can’t risk falling. His master doesn’t have time to turn around to pick him up, and Jeralt likely wouldn’t be thrilled about having to wait for them. Everything would be so much easier if he didn’t fall asleep, so that’s what he resolves to do. 

This turns out to be much more difficult in practice though. Byleth and Jeralt ride beside each other in near complete silence, the air between them crackling with an awkwardness that neither seems willing to breach. It’s not hostile though, with both of them casting occasionally glancing at each other with neutral expressions. It’s almost like they’re having a unique, silent conversation, and trying to watch and puzzle it out seems invasive to Hubert. 

The horses are allowed to trot at a relaxed pace, and their steps seem less abrasive to Hubert with each passing minute. His pain has dulled to a tolerable discomfort, most likely due to the heat of his fever, and he finds his head dropping forward to rest softly against Byleth’s shoulder. The first time it happens, the color drains from Hubert’s face and he bolts upright again, stammering out a jumbled apology. Byleth just quietly reassures him that it’s fine, even inviting him to rest his head there if he’s going to sleep. It takes three more repeats of this exact same situation to eventually break Hubert, his head bumping softly against his master’s shoulder and not rising again. 

Hubert can’t pinpoint the exact moment he falls asleep. It feels more like he’s blinked and missed an impossible amount of time, and he draws a sharp breath as he sits up again. The moon is higher in the sky, starting its descent as the stars dance around it, and the air around them seems darker. Hubert can still tell that they’ve left the area around the old cabin though, the trees around them standing closer together and a small creek trickling over a bed of large rocks. 

“We’re stopping,” Byleth informs him, gently prying Hubert’s arms off of his middle and swinging himself down from Glitter’s back. Hubert’s head feels fuzzy, the much-needed sleep having done nothing to improve his usefulness. He watches his master stupidly as he reaches up to help him down, eyes widening as he finally realizes what he wants and rushes to reach out and take Byleth’s hands. He nearly collapses on top of the mercenary, incomprehensible apologies tumbling out of his mouth in a rush as his pulse picks up to a panicked hammer again. Byleth shushes him, almost dismissively, as he carefully leads him over to the side of the small stream. The irrational fear of being held down in the shallow water barges its way into Hubert’s mind, and he whimpers softly as his master lowers him to sit on a fallen log.

“Please…” Hubert whispers, his mind not supplying anything else to make a coherent plea as he looks dolefully up at Byleth. The mercenary only responds with a small shake of his head, moving to crouch beside the stream and dip a cloth into the cold water. He returns to Hubert and begins properly washing up what he can, using much more care than the slave feels he deserves. The pale boy looks quite a sight as he trembles under the gentle attention, unfocused eyes pointed up at the sky as Byleth does the best he can without removing any clothes. After quickly doing the same for himself, Byleth slides an arm around Hubert’s shoulders to help him stand. Hubert says nothing, silent and numb as he goes where his master directs him.

The two tents are completely set up as they return, with a tired-looking Jeralt shuffling past them on his way to freshen up a bit in the stream. Hubert tries to be polite and acknowledge his master’s father as they pass, but he’s pretty sure it just looks like he’s about to pass out. Byleth seems to silently agree, readjusting his grip on Hubert and trying to hurry him towards one of the tents. 

It’s not a luxurious space underneath the canvas roof, with both of them having to duck when they walk inside, but it’s comparatively cozier than the cold moonlight outside. It looks like Jeralt has even set up the bedroll, sacrificing one of his own blankets to expand the little sleeping spot, and lit a small lantern beside the thin travel pillows. Hubert is vaguely surprised that he’s been brought inside, his sluggish mind whispering that his master must want something from him tonight. Yes, that would make sense. He hasn’t been a very good slave today, despite only having been Byleth’s for a few hours. He just hopes that whatever the mercenary wants won’t take too much concentration. He can’t seem to get his mind in order right now.

Hubert collapses easily onto the bedroll as Byleth lowers him down, his breath rushing out in a soft sigh. When had the ground become so comfortable? He finds his head lolling easily to the side, gaze tracking the mercenary as he drops down next to him. To Hubert’s surprise he doesn’t immediately feel hands grabbing at his body, pulling his clothes off and trying to reposition him. His master has instead turned his back on him, flipping up the blanket so it falls over both of them. He can’t help but feel a dull twinge of fear. Has he done something else wrong already? It wouldn’t surprise him.

“Master..?” His voice is heavy and slurred, his eyes barely open as he reaches towards Byleth’s shoulder with unsteady fingers. He stops just short of touching him, uncertain of the rules for this sort of interaction with his new master, when Byleth makes the decision for him.

“You should sleep, Hubert.”

Once again Hubert is left with a gentle suggestion from his master, rather than a command that would ensure his compliance. Is a confusing feeling. Why would his master give him the chance to ruin things by acting on his own decisions? Everything is so much simpler when he’s just told what to do, and what’s expected of him. But it seems for now that his master is done with his troublesome slave, the thought leaving Hubert to lay back on his undeserved bedding and stare up at the roof of the tent above him. 

Hubert is left drifting in and out of a light sleep, his anxieties not letting him properly rest. He’s been nothing but insufficient tonight, and yet he’s still been allowed to lay here peacefully. At his master’s side, no less. He feels like he’s stealing something indescribable from Byleth. His nerves leave him twitching at every sound and shuffle that the mercenary beside him makes in his sleep, ready at a moment’s notice to take an order that never comes. Occasionally he’ll find himself listening to the idle horses, or the peaceful sound of the steam that tumbles over the rocks outside, as his eyes stare unseeing in the dark. It’s…serene. And it scares him deeply. The hours creep by with painful slowness.

Some time before dawn, when the sky is just starting to show hints of lightening, Hubert is jarred out of a light doze by a soft whisper from Byleth’s direction. He turns his head as awareness creeps back into his mind, watching as his master rolls limply onto his back. Byleth is still deeply asleep, eyes twitching back and forth under his eyelids as his brow softly furrows. Hubert realizes what’s happening as his master makes another unhappy noise. It must be a nightmare. 

Hubert sits up, worry glittering in his eyes as he watches Byleth shuffle and squirm. He’s at a complete loss on what to do. He’s experienced nightmares of his own, and has been punished for disturbing others with the sounds he would make during them, but has never seen one from the outside before. Is he supposed to wake his master? Does he even have permission to do so? He feels like he’s been put on the spot and given a question with no right answer, pressing his lips together in a tight line as he watches his master with indecision. 

And then Byleth whimpers. The sound stabs Hubert in the gut, sounding much too similar to some of the noises he makes when cowering in fear. The idea of being punished is suddenly much less important to him. He should wake Byleth. 

The idea is easy, but figuring out how he should do so is much more difficult. Shaking his master’s arm seems rude, and speaking loudly enough to wake him is even worse. Goddess forbid he go and wake Jeralt for help; he’d like to keep as much space as possible between himself and the intimidating man. He spends a few moments more wallowing in indecision before finally making his move. 

Hubert moves slowly, every small movement stretched out in an almost exaggerated way in an effort not to unduly disturb Byleth. His previous master had been very receptive to being woken up in this certain way... Perhaps Byleth will enjoy it too. When he had tried this earlier they had been in public, so he can’t assume that the mercenary is against the idea. He had been happy enough to stick his fingers in his slave’s mouth, after all. 

Hubert focuses intently on steadying his hands as he settles himself in the small space between his master’s legs, nudging them further apart with delicate touches. Byleth doesn’t seem to be a light sleeper, still lost in his nightmare and making another whimper. Hubert tries to hurry without being sloppy. He tugs softly at the ties that hold Byleth’s breeches up, wriggling them apart to hook his fingers softly on the top of his smallclothes. He’s glad the friction of the fabric sliding down from his master’s hips doesn’t wake him, giving him a chance to try and properly wake him. He takes Byleth’s length in his hand with gentle reverence, lowering his head and easing it into his mouth. 

Byleth isn’t huge, but he’s big enough to have Hubert worrying about how gracefully he’ll be able to take him all the way back into his throat without unsightly gagging. Those worries can wait though, and he instead focuses on moving his head in slow, lazy motions. The sounds he can hear from his master are encouraging. Byleth is no longer making fearful noises, his breath picking up slightly as he starts to make some soft, impressively erotic moans in the back of his throat. Good, that’s a good sign. Hubert feels a tiny flash of pride at finally being able to do something right for his master. It’s a small victory, but a victory nonetheless.

Hubert can feel his master’s fingers twining into his hair, just a bit rough as he gives the slave’s hair a sleepy tug. Hubert makes a muffled noise around Byleth’s cock, channeling it quickly into a soft hum that he hopes feels nice. That’s an even better sign. This feeling in his chest is something as close to happiness as the sickly boy can feel in this moment, eyes drifting shut as he relishes the feeling of successfully pleasing Byleth. The soft, rhythmic pulling of his hair makes him feel nice, like a cat whose ears are being rubbed. There’s no pain, no growls or roughness forcing him to move faster, just a warm sense of satisfaction. And it seems that his master slowly waking up, confusion creeping into the lewd sounds he’s making as he fidgets beneath Hubert. His plan was a complete success.

There’s no time for Hubert to bask in the feeling of twisted contentment he feels, as the realization of what’s happening seems to snap Byleth immediately out of his sleepy haze. The mercenary lets out a completely unexpected noise, sounding almost like a strangled scream as he abruptly lets go of Hubert and jolts up into a sitting position. The slave feels his heart stop in his chest as he pulls himself off of Byleth, eyes wide in confusion and an apology already on his wet lips. What had he done wrong?

He doesn’t get the chance to ask. He doesn’t get a single word out before Byleth draws one leg back, all the way to his stomach, and kicks Hubert in the shoulder with enough force to send him sprawling onto his back.


End file.
